Your Turn to Suffer by Tim Waggoner (free romance novels .TXT) 📗

a professional cartoonist, and he figured he could work on ideas for cartoons in his head while he walked, and then draw them later. A steady paycheck, regular exercise, and time to think about cartoons seemed more than enough to expect from his job.

But it turned out that the stories were true. He did get a lot of ass.

Not every day, but a couple times a week, sometimes more. Bored housewives whose husbands were at work and whose kids were at school would open the door when he stepped onto their porch to put their mail into the box. Sometimes they’d be dressed in tight T-shirts and shorts or maybe low-cut tops that displayed their cleavage. Maybe they’d be wearing a T-shirt and panties or sexy lingerie or nothing at all. They would ask him how he was doing, how his day was going, invite him in for a cool drink when the weather was warm, a hot drink when it was cold. And when he accepted their offer and went inside, they gave him a hell of a lot more than liquid refreshment.

He was young – only twenty-five – tall and broad-shouldered. He had a man’s body and a boy’s face, and a lot of women found the combination irresistible. It didn’t hurt that he had a larger than average cock, either. He didn’t know for sure, but he suspected the women on his route told their friends – their best friends, the ones they could trust – about what he had to offer. Word of mouth is the best kind of advertising.

As far as Norman was concerned, he was living his absolutely best life. He didn’t know how long it would last, though. Husbands might become suspicious and the women would decide not to put their marriages at risk anymore. And one day he wouldn’t look so boyish, and then he might not receive as many invitations to come inside – might not receive any. But until then, he was going to enjoy every minute he spent with other men’s wives. When he’d turned fifteen, his dad had given him some advice. Fuck as many women as you can as often as you can. Because once you get married, you’ll be lucky to get laid once a month, if that. Norman had taken his father’s advice to heart, and he intended to have as much sex as he could while he could.

This rainy afternoon he was in bed with Camille Barnes. She was almost twice his age and carried a few extra pounds, but she had large breasts and she fucked like a teenager. She was one of those older women who tried to appear younger by dyeing their hair in colors favored by millennials – in Camille’s case, a bright blue – and getting tattoos and piercings. Camille wore a nose stud, and she had an elaborate tattoo of a phoenix on her back, red flames trailing from its wings, eyes blazing with inner fire. Whenever he fucked her from behind, as he was doing now, he couldn’t escape the feeling that the phoenix was glaring at him, demanding he plow the bird’s mistress harder, faster, deeper. For this reason, he often kept his eyes shut while screwing Camille in this position, or sometimes he’d let his gaze wander around the room – anything so long as he didn’t have to look at that damn bird.

Camille was on her hands and knees, pushing herself back against him as he thrust himself into her, her large breasts making slapping sounds against her chest as they flopped back and forth. She had her head down as if she was concentrating, and she kept up a running monologue while they fucked.

“Yeah, that’s right, that’s good, keep it up, keep going, don’t stop, get in there, fill me up, fuck me harder, that’s good, right there….”

He supposed a lot of guys might be turned on listening to a woman responding like this while they were screwing, but he found it kind of distracting, to be honest. It was like she was trying too hard to have a good time instead of just having it. But each to their own, right?

The first time a woman brought him into her marital bed, he thought he’d feel self-conscious at best and like an absolute piece of shit at worst. But it turned out he hadn’t felt much of anything. In fact, the idea that he was fucking another man’s woman on the same bed that the two of them had sex on was kind of kinky. Besides, most of the bedrooms he was invited into had been decorated by the women, so they felt more like the wives’ spaces than the husbands’. Camille’s bedroom was done in variations of blue. Everything – the walls, the curtains, the carpet, the bedclothes – was different shades of blue. The air smelled blue too, like she was using some kind of air freshener or something. The décor was a little much for him, but he wasn’t here to admire Camille’s aesthetic taste. He was here to fuck this woman until she screamed.

Camille had opened the bedroom window several inches, high enough so they could hear the rain – she loved the sound of falling rain – but not so far that water got inside. It wasn’t raining so hard that the sound would mask Camille’s X-rated monologue and her cries and shouts as she approached orgasm. But if she didn’t care if her neighbors heard them fucking, why should he?

His postal uniform – along with his underwear and socks – lay on the floor where Camille had dropped them after undressing him. She’d met him at the door wearing only a skimpy black bra and panties, and they lay next to his uniform. Camille had removed them seconds after she’d gotten him naked. His carrier bag stuffed with mail sat propped up against the wall near the clothes. Whenever he was invited into a woman’s bedroom, he